


Breathless

by yossarian359



Series: I'm Still Here [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Epistolary, F/F, Fluff, Possible smut, bits of me venting tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-14 13:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14137242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yossarian359/pseuds/yossarian359
Summary: A collection of entries from the diary of Amélie, not quite Lacroix, not quite Widowmaker, as she seeks to discover herself in a world after Talon.





	1. Where to begin?

I can’t remember the last time I wrote a diary.

Before when I was with Talon—when I was _Widowmaker_ —there was little use for one. Talon’s tight scheduling left no room for such frivolous things anyway. Besides, what would have I written down?

 _Dear diary,_ _  
_ _Today Moira O'Deorain made sure I that am not capable of feeling emotions, and I didn’t feel anything for the rest of the day. The end._

Absurd.

Perhaps this was once something I did when I was married to Gérard. If it was, I can’t seem to remember. The once sharp lines of his face are now blurred when I think of them. There is so little of his wife left in me.

Who am I now? Widowmaker? Amélie? Something else entirely or perhaps something in between? Maybe a bit of everything.

This is confusing; all these thoughts swimming around in my head—Lena said that seeing my thoughts on paper would help me understand them better. I told her I thought it was a foolish idea, how would writing things down help anything? When I saw her eyes I could tell I hurt her with my words. How _stupid_ of me. How careless.

I care about Lena more than anything, more than I care for myself. Every night when she falls asleep next to me—I look at her unconscious face, mesmerised by the rhythm of her breathing, and just wish that I could tell her these things I cannot speak.

What I mentioned before about being incapable of feeling is not entirely true. Even when I was Widowmaker I could always feel _something_ , no matter how small. It was subdued—like a memory of a memory. When it came to emotions, I was an amature trying to understand an emotion from only the briefest scent.

Currently, I am scarcely any better. It is still a mountain stretching tall in front of me, one begging to be climbed.

However, I _will_ climb that mountain—because I want to do it for _her_. Lena has made me feel so many things that I thought I was incapable of feeling… She’s shown me so much of her heart.

Instead of getting upset when I said something foolish, Lena stood up from the couch in our room and went to the cupboard. Reaching up for the top shelf caused her singlet to ride up her back. It’s far too small on her, but I am too _distracted_ by it to tell her to replace it. I think it’s one of her favourites, probably because she knows how it effects me.

“Need help, chérie?” I smiled, placing my palm on the shelf she was on her tiptoes trying to reach.

Lena scoffed. She is cute when she pretends to be annoyed. “That’d be great, luv. Saves me getting the box,” She said smiling. As much as she jokes about it, Lena has never expressed any real insecurity about her height. In fact, I believe she enjoys being smaller— _mon petit lapin._

“What am I looking for?” I asked.

A shoebox apparently. Thick dust coated the lid, it had been neglected, forgotten.

I was about to joke about how only Lena would keep shoes on the top shelf, but then I saw her serious expression when she asked me to open it.

Suddenly, I realised what this box was; I cradled something so precious in my arms.

Inside were her effects from when the world thought she was dead. There was a scarf, blue and yellow, an old analog watch; spare helix earrings, simple and silver—small effects, nothing too extravagant.

Underneath lay a tattered notebook. The cover was faded blue, and inside were Lena’s unmistakable messy cursives. The first page sat a clear title: _Slipstream_.

The book trembled in her nervous fingers. “For months, the Slipstream… I didn’t know what was happening. And I couldn’t describe it for ages when Angie asked me to speak about it. How do you describe something like that? I had so many nightmares I couldn’t place...” She trailed off.

I covered her hands with mine own to still them. _Oh mon amour_.

She continued, gripping my hand tightly. “After I was out of the Slipstream, all these thoughts, these fears, were just bouncing around in my head. So I just started writing it down, you know; and it helped.” Her warm hazel eyes flicked up. “I want you to have this,” she said to me, handing me the box. “You don’t have to read it or anything I just—” her voice was soft and tender, it always was when she was cautious but thoughtful. “It’s important to me, and so are _you_. I was in a very dark place when I wrote this diary, maybe it will help you out when you’re feeling… not yourself.”

The box was coarse and rough in my hand, but it felt so _delicate._ “Oh, ma chérie , I _couldn’t_. This is meant for family members and I—” _I’m not good enough, I don’t deserve it._ Even after she apologised, Ana Amari’s words still ring fresh in my ears, cutting as they go.

Lena wouldn’t allow me to think such things, and suddenly I felt her warm lips on mine. Firm and reassuring, but tender as they moved against me. My lungs were suddenly hot. No matter how many times it happens: when I taste Lena’s lips, I feel _so_ _alive._

When we finally broke, my forehead found hers. “Overwatch _is_ my family, and you’re a very important part of it, Amélie.”

My thumb found its way to her cheek, wiping away a tear on the dimple below her eye that threatened to spill down her soft face. “Of course, Lena.” I whispered, and carefully brought her into an embrace.

I read that book that night. She was so raw and vulnerable, spreading her mind out bare on those old pages. These thoughts and feelings, things I never knew, never would have considered.

She wrote about how after the Slipstream, _touch_ was so important to her. It must have been, after floating between realities, without anything to remind you that you’re real.

It explained why she can never sit still with her hands. Though I didn’t mind, her hands are always very busy with me.

In truth, I envy how Lena is so free and causal with her feelings, even if she is only truly intimate with me.

Before, I used to be confident, even sometimes forceful with with my touches. When I was the Widowmaker, I took what I wanted. I didn’t care what Tracer felt; she was a _thing_ to be used for my desire. The fact that she wanted it was a mere bonus. Piece by piece, that exterior melted away under warm amber eyes. That confidence I had before was replaced with shame. She told me my... _attentions_ were never unwelcome, said if she didn’t want it, she would’ve put an end to it there and then. It did little to soothe my restless mind, constantly fretting—Was I abusive? Is she with me only out of pity?

I was so used to not caring I don’t know how to show it when I do. The way she looks at me on those rare occasions I can show my love truly; her smile like the soft morning sunshine peeking through translucent curtains.

 _Oh_ ma belle, ma _chérie_ ; I would move mountains for you.

 

If this is a medium for me to express myself then perhaps I should write in French, but I want Lena to be able read this. Communication is something I find very difficult at times.

Perhaps writing this _to_ Lena will help me say the things I can’t find the words for.

So, ma chérie, where to begin?


	2. Morning Sun

I remember on the first night of our vacation you took me to a nice restaurant.

That day was good, until the evening.

There was nothing wrong with the restaurant. Service was adequate, the food more so.

However that _couple_ , on the table two over from us, was the source of my dysphoria. A man and a woman, obviously not Spanish, probably in their mid twenties. She was screaming at him.

“I’m fine,” I kept saying even though it wasn’t true. _The food is lovely,_ I wanted to say, but I couldn’t.

I was too focused on what that woman was saying to him. Too focused on how that man she was with was just so silent and still, unmoving. He didn’t react, he just wore a disinterested mask as she kept telling him to _react_ , to say something. _Don’t deserve this, never listen, never give me anything in return._

“You’re not fine,” You said grabbing my hand and I squeezed back until my knuckles were white.  “Come on, I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

Part of me wanted to protest, afraid that I ruined our date by being so _weak_. Widowmaker would have never shown this kind of weakness. Then again, I’m not her, aren’t I?    

When we left the restaurant I could breathe again. I took a moment to enjoy the way your arm curled up around my waist as we walked. Your other found its way to my shoulder as you learnt into me, soft fuzzy hair tickling my neck. Thumb drawing small circles where they rested. Calm, reassuring. I felt safe in your arms.

Later that night I felt them again, after that _horrible_ nightmare.

It was so vivid, Lena. _She_ was there, Widowmaker. Me.

Her skin was covered in a layer of fine sharp hairs, those horrific eight blood-red eyes turning their gaze to your sleeping form. I couldn’t let her touch you, I brought my hands to her throat and cried “You _will_ not touch her!”

I heard the sound of you choking first, and then I felt your nails biting into my skin. It’s _chelicerae._ The fangs in front of its mouth, moved as if it were speaking, but I heard your voice instead. “ _Amélie,_ ” it said, and then I realised what was happening and screamed.

Feeling faint, I collapsed onto the floor. My cheeks were wet. I can’t remember the last time they felt that way. Had I ever truly cried before?

What I felt is too hard for me to describe. You probably knew what I felt better than I did, you’re always such a brilliant observer, so good at predicting movement, intention, all just from an expression, a look. It saved your life many times before.

Even after what I just did, you allowed me back into your arms and it felt like home.

You’re so precious to me, mon couer. I don’t know what I’d do without you, and I nearly killed you that night.

Next morning you woke me as if nothing had happened. I felt the small vibrations of your lips on the back of my neck as you spoke, “Morning, love.” Your kisses there always make me shiver.

I felt your lips curl into a smile as your hand lazily traced the fine lines of that tattoo on my back. I used to worry about the effects that Widowmaker left on my skin; the blue hue, the tattoo’s: A constant reminder of who I was, who I am.

You never treated me as something, no, someone else.

I remember the first time my feelings began to thaw when I was with you. We were ‘intimate’ but I was guarded, had only removed my gloves to pleasure you, while you lay there naked under my touch. Certainly a part of me enjoyed that power over you. After fighting for so long, having you so submissive under me, coming apart so easily from my fingers rubbing small circles around your entrance. The noises you made, soft mewls and whimpers as you squirmed under me, making me _feel_.

I was addicted to you. I thought it was the closest thing to love I could get.

Little did I know that there could be so much more but you showed it to me despite everything, despite who I was; the monster that I am.

Sleepily, I turned around to face you that morning, honeyed eyes always making me warm. I wanted to kiss you there, but then I saw those violent red marks on your beautiful neck, velvet where my nails dug in.

I wanted to tear my arms off and go to the elder Amari tell her she was right, tell her to lock me away so I couldn’t hurt you.

I _promised_ I’d never hurt you again and I failed.

You must have noticed this as you brought our heads together. “It’s okay, spider. I’m not going anywhere.” Reassurance came with the smallest touch of your lips on mine. “Hey,” you said, bringing your arm up to my cheek, “You didn’t know what was happening. It isn’t your fault Amélie. Not really.”

I wanted to smile at how easily you could read my mind, how well you knew me. Writing this now, I am smiling at that. There is no one in the world who knows me as you do.

“I should never have allowed myself to lose control.” I whispered, not meeting your eyes, I felt as if I didn’t deserve to.

You thought for a moment before your lips curled into a bright smile. “What about the first time you kissed me?”

“I did not.” I said.

“Yes, you did!” You said brightly, laughing at the disbelief in my voice. Your soft fingers touched my chin, and lifted my face up so I could see yours, “That night on the rooftops, I had you pinned, yeah?” My cheeks felt warm, I must have been blushing. “Couldn’t fling me off a roof this time, instead you kissed me yeah?” You said, lips curling up in delight. “You started really going at it, love.”

“You’re lips were very sweet, chérie.” I purred, “I couldn’t resist.”

“You did more than not resist,” you said, kissing along my jaw, interspacing words with the plant of your mouth on my skin, “You wouldn’t let up, even started going at my tit!”

“As I seem to recall, you did little to deter me.”

You hummed sweetly. I’ve never told you how much I adore the sound of your voice, especially how it sounds in your throat when you mewl under the touch of my fingers and tongue.

I continued, “You let me on top, freeing yourself to my _touch_.” My cold hands slid their way to your side.

“You lost control.” You whispered, kind and reverent. “You were vulnerable with me and it led to something beautiful. You can be vulnerable with me yeah? Don’t ever feel bad about sharing your feelings with me, you love me right?”

The night before, I felt tears on my cheeks for the first time in my new life. That morning, they spilled again, but I wasn’t distraught or upset I was...

I don’t know what I felt.

“Of course, mon coeur.”

Having you by my side, there was little I felt like I couldn’t do.

You are the soft morning sunlight.

You are the smell of spring.

My hands slipped further down and I spent the rest of the day showing you how much you mean to me.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I was originally struggling with a much larger version of this, constantly angsting over every line and sentence. Rather than worrying over this, I decided to split it up and get it off my mind for a bit. I would love any feedback/suggestions you can offer!


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